A Deadly Fire
by Catching Fireflies
Summary: Sequel to A Deadly Spark. Against the odds, Spark Reviz of District 4 is now a victor. But the torture doesn't stop. The Capitol will make her pay for the rebellious things she's done, and they'll make sure that she pays in the worst ways. And it seems like she's lost it and let insanity and drug addiction take over. Can she start a rebellion that could save Panem from itself?
1. Addict Spark

**Guess what, people? Catching Fireflies is back with a sequel! :D New month, new story! I am unbelievably excited to start this story, since I've got some awesome plans for it. And I'm pretty sure that some of this stuff is going to surprise you guys. So I really hope you like it!**

**Okay, for all of you who just clicked on this story, I'd REALLY recommend reading A Deadly Spark first if you haven't already, otherwise this isn't going to make much sense. But brief reminders: Spark is back in District 4, she's a drug addict, she's a victor, and the first story ended with the train pulling into Four and her overdosing on pain pills and trying to kill herself. Just to refresh your memories.**

**Oh, and this is really dark stuff with a LOT of self-harm in some form, just a warning.**

**On that happy note, here it goes!**

_**Addict Spark**_

They tell me things, whispering in my ears. The drugs, I mean. They speak to me. "Spark, just one more pill bottle full," they coax me while I'm already sprawled out on my bed with my bedroom door locked, my head fuzzy. "Come on, what's the harm of another ten morphling pills? And then a swallow of liquid morphling? It's not supposed to be drank, but it's not going to hurt you, is it?" And I can literally hear the drugs talking to me, and I obey every command that they give me. Even when Gran comes knocking on my door after painfully making her way up the stairs, telling me in her weakening voice to let her in. _Begging _me to stop with the drugs. But I can't.

I just can't stop now.

I look around my bedroom in the Victor's Village. It connects to a large bathroom with a shower and a bathtub, and a marble counter-top. I sleep in my comfortable queen-sized bed, night or day. I always have my shades down and my curtains drawn so no one can see in. And my room -actually, most of my new house- is trashed. The bathroom is filled with piles of empty pill bottles that missed the trash, and the bathtub's always got a few inches of cold water in the bottom from me keeping the drain blocked off. The water's tinted pink-red with blood. And all over my room, I've got prescription medicine hidden. Sure, it wasn't prescribed to me. When you're a victor, you can get away with a lot of things, and illegal drug purchase is one of them.

"Spark!" Gran calls creakily from downstairs. I groan and squeeze my eyes shut, rolling over face-down on my bed with my covers pulled up over me. I shove the half-empty pill bottle under my pillow. "Spark, come down, I made you some breakfast." Gran's been helping out a lot. Dragging me out of my fucking bed every fucking day. Cooking for me. Trying to get me to stop using drugs, but I'll _never_ stop. And maybe I should be grateful, but I'm too busy falling asleep in the bathtub stark naked and soaked with empty bottles of morphling pills floating in the water and my clothes hanging from the chandelier and a knife balanced on the shower-head and cuts on each of my wrists...

I even say that my victor's talent -you know, the talents that all victors are supposed to have to occupy their time and please the Capitol?- is getting high. Or self-harm, since then that includes drinking and cutting my wrists, another two activities that I'm getting quite good at. But overall, I'm a drug addict. I guess it's official now. Miranda, my chaperone, sent me a list of desirable talents. Flower arranging, painting, playing the clarinet, all of the usual shit. I went with sketching, even though I keep accidentally holding the pencil like a knife.

But I never let anyone see my drawings. It's a good way to get my anger out for now when I run out of drugs. And I draw most when I'm high and on that wonderful rush. I draw the world of fire and shimmers that comes to me when I'm on drugs. I draw the arena. I draw pictures of President Snow with his eyes stabbed out and a sword through his heart, with his body lying in a pool of blood. I draw the Capitol burning down, with screaming citizens falling out of the windows of their fancy apartment buildings. I draw twisted things.

I sigh and get out of bed, almost falling on the floor, staggering to unlock the door to my room. I put on a black jacket, tugging the sleeves down. It fit me when I came home to District Four, but now, only three months later, it's baggy and loose on my skinny frame. I force the sleeves to cover my wrists, hastily wrapping a threadbare rag around my right wrist, since it hasn't stopped bleeding yet. I can't let Gran see that I've obviously been cutting myself. After a deep breath, I open the door and take the stairs into the kitchen slowly.

Gran's at the stove, and I smell bacon sizzling on a pan. She doesn't see me yet, and I'm just standing in the threshold. I shiver, my shorts barely covering my legs at all, and I'm only wearing a thin tank top under my jacket. It's only early fall, almost late summer, but it's already a little chilly this morning. But I feel so twisted up. Safe, but ready to be killed. Drunk and sober. High, and at the same time, I feel like I've never done drugs in my life.

I step into the kitchen. "Hey," I say quietly, sliding into my seat at the table as Gran piles bacon and eggs on my plate.

She smiles warmly. It's funny. I barely notice, but she's not looking so good lately either. Her hair is tangled and white, and she's thin, and her voice is hoarse. But she still looks happy for the most part, and she does everything she can to take good care of me. "Glad to see you're up," she says. Ha. She fucking _knows_ that I sleep on and off during the day and stay up all night getting high. Then she frowns a little when I pick up my fork. "What's that on your wrist?"

Shit, my sleeve must have slipped. Fuck! I drop the fork and pull the sleeve down to cover my wrist, but it's too late. Even the bandage has slipped, and a single drop of crimson blood falls on the white tablecloth. Gran sees it, and she's staring at me. I meet her eyes, and for some stupid reason, my eyes start to get wide and filled with tears, and my lower lip trembles. I think I'm going to cry if I'm not careful. And it's true. My emotions are twisted up completely. And my eyes are pleading with her not to say anything. But she does anyway.

"Spark," she says quietly, sitting down across the table from me. "Are you cutting your wrists?"

My first impulse isn't denial, but actually, I just want to stand up and say that I am. "Sure as hell I am, and you shouldn't give a fuck," I mutter, lowering my gaze, toying with my bacon a little on my plate. "Oh, and while you're at it, I also drink underage and I'm a drug addict, in case that hasn't been staring you in the face for three months."

There. There it was. I just crossed a line. Gran gives me a steely glare. "Spark!" she says. "Of _course_ I know that you're a drug addict, and I'm getting sick of it! You remember that you overdosed on the way back here, and you know what? The first time I see my granddaughter in person after she becomes a victor, and she's unconscious and half-dead, getting dragged off a train!" Okay, that really stings. I thought that I would just die, but no. I got carried out of the train and taken straight to the district doctor. I barely pulled through that time. "And I find you passed out all the time, and it's after you got high. I find you with slit wrists and empty bottles of morphling pills, Spark!"

I don't say anything. I can't. I stand up, a little dizzy from blood loss and lack of drugs in a few hours. "Shut up," I snarl, not looking at her. I push my chair into the table, wood connecting with wood with a crack, and I run up the stairs as fast as I can, into my room, slamming the door so hard that some picture falls off the wall and the glass shatters. I lock it quickly as possible, and then I run into the bathroom. My hands shakily plug the sink as I retch over and over, trembling and sweating, close to tears.

Once I've stopped puking in the sink, I trip over the floor mat and practically fall in the bathtub with a splash and a disgusting noise as my head hits the side. "Ow, fuck!" I groan, up to my chin in cold, bloody water. My clothes are soaked, sticking to my skin. Shit. I need to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth. I don't even know why I was just puking- nervousness, maybe? The drugs? Blood loss? I have no fucking idea.

My fingers find a mostly full bottle of morphling pills, and I smile weakly. My left hand, the one I write with, reaches for my knife, and my fingers clasp around the hilt. I start off with the pills, dumping a handful into my hand and swallowing them all without water. Ahh. I feel so good now. Like nothing could ever hurt me. Except, I can still hurt myself. I trace the knife across my already bleeding right wrist. I barely feel the pain through all of the morphling that blurs my mind. But I still see blood dripping down my wrist, into the water. And as it drips down, tears drip out of my eyes into the water. I cry silently. No sobs. I can't let anyone hear.

But I finally lose it. I just give up and give in to the pressure building inside of me and start sobbing, my face in my hands and my shoulders shaking with every sob. I gasp for air, but I can't seem to get enough, and I cry harder. I'm so miserable now. Even getting high isn't becoming much fun anymore. But I can't stop! I want to stop deep down, but _I - fucking - can't_! I can't stop with the drugs, and I'm too deep in now to pull myself out!

I sob even harder, almost screaming. I bet Finnick can hear me next door. Sure, I'm lucky enough to have a house on the very edge of the Victor's Village here in District Four, but they put me next to my mentor for a reason. That makes me cry even more, and then I just let loose and scream. I slash at my wrists over and over, blood spraying in the air until I get so frustrated that I throw my knife at the wall. And then I take the rest of the pills in the bottle until my head's spinning even more and I feel like just killing myself. I feel like a thousand different emotions, scraps of differently-colored paper taped together to make something so clashing that it almost rips itself apart.

I want to die by now. The rebellion has faded into something hopeless. Like a fucking stupid dream that I was chasing on the horizon like the first glimmers of sunrise over the motherfucking ocean. Tears sting in my eyes as I haul my weak, broken body out of the bathtub and heave myself onto the mat on the tile floor. I dimly realize that I'm pouring my blood out on the floor. A pool of blood is under each one of my wrists now. I grab two pristine white towels and wrap them around my wrists, clutching my hands to my stomach. I moan in pain.

Out of the blur, I hear my grandmother's voice. She's knocking on my door. Over and over. "Open the door, Spark!" she begs. She sounds pretty fucking desperate. _I'm right here, Gran!_ I think. _Here, killing myself! And I'd get up and open the door, but I just can't!_ "Can you hear me? Say something!"

I try to 'say something'. I really do. But shit, I can't do anything but cry silently on the floor, letting my blood pour out and letting my life flow out with it. I can barely breathe now, and my heart's going _thump-thump-thump_ in my chest, way faster than it should. I don't know what's happening now. But I fucking need some more morphling...

"No you don't!" I yell to the voice. I can't get it to shut up, because Addict Spark never shuts up.

"Yes you do," Addict Spark taunts me. "You know you want some more morphling. You know that you'll never stop with drugs. You know that you'll never be able to quit taking those pills, Rebel Bitch." A chill runs down my spine. I remember that name from the arena, from the Career tributes. "Yeah, you remember that name, bitch?" Addict Spark teases. "Remember when you were Sparky? Remember when you were Rebel Bitch in the arena? Remember the first time you tried morphling pills in the arena? And you loved it?"

_"Shut the fuck up!"_ I scream, pounding my fist into the floor. "Shut the fuck up _now_!"

"Oh, no," says Addict Spark, laughing. "I'm not going to shut up. Not now, not ever. Come on, you know you want some morphling. You know that it'd be easy enough to have just another ten pills or so..."

_"NOOO!"_ I yell at the top of my lungs.

"You know that you want to..." seduces Addict Spark with a sly grin. "You know that your heart's going to break without drugs... It's like you're in love, Rebel Bitch... and yeah, it's like a love song... you and drugs forever and forever... Come on, you know you want to..."

_"I don't fucking want to!"_ I yell, but at the same time, I'm swallowing more morphling pills, dropping the empty pill bottle on the floor. I feel so unbelievably wonderful, but at the same time, I'm torn into a million little pieces.

Addict Spark laughs. "Hahaha, just watch yourself," she says. I do. I get to my feet, leaning heavily on the counter, and look in the mirror. I look completely twisted. There's blood all over me, and I'm soaking wet. My eyes are shadowed with dark circles, I'm deathly skinny, and my hair is greasy. I'm scared of myself now. "See?" Addict Spark mocks. "Look at you. You're a wreck. You're pitiful."

I scream in pure anger and stagger against the wall, slumping to the ground. "I HATE YOU!" I yell. Where's my knife? I need my fucking knife! "Aaaaaaaarrrgh!" I yell, kicking the side of the bathtub and punching the wall with my left fist. I want to fucking _die_ already! And as I step forward, my foot slips in a pool of blood, and I go down to the ground, my head hitting the wall as I hit the floor.

Stars explode in front of my eyes as the haze overtakes me, and my vision turns black. But even as I'm going down, even as I'm fucking dying, I realize one thing that I think I've known all this time:

Addict Spark has always been there. My evil side. My alter ego. But only now have I truly let Addict Spark take over me, and now Rebel Bitch is left dying and lying on the floor.


	2. My Darling Drugs

**Hey! Here's chapter 2, people! Wow... this is getting A Deadly Spark a lot more popularity now that it's got a sequel. Anyway, thanks to the four people who favorited and followed, and thanks to Anarchy Girl and Sabrina Mellark for reviewing. To the former- you'll know where this chapter title came from, then. (If you're curious, it's a combination of two Eminem songs -My Darling and Drug Ballad- that inspire this fanfic a lot.) To the latter- Yeah, that was a dark first chapter. And it's going to get even darker, believe me. I may change the rating to M later on, actually. This is NOT going to be a happy story. Anyway, hope you enjoy this!**

**And to my fellow Americans, happy independence day! :D**

_**My Darling**** Drugs**_

I wake up to silence from Addict Spark. Good. But after a few seconds, I register the pain that runs through my whole body. My wrists are throbbing with every heartbeat. My head is heavy and filled with a foggy haze. My stomach's churning like I'm about to vomit. And I feel fucking awful. Like I'm going to die right here and now. And I want to, because I can almost hear Addict Spark coming back, whispering to me almost like the hiss of a snake, laughing at me. Telling me stupid things that I obey. _"Come on, Spark, just a few more pills... and a few more... and what's the harm of another few cuts to your wrists?_

My eyes fly open as I sit up abruptly. A dizzy rush overtakes me, my head spinning, my vision turning black at the corners. I see blinding white, all around me. Well, for a few seconds. Then I flop back down, rolling over on my stomach. A soft moan comes out from between my lips, and I shut my eyes. _Wherever you are, you are _not_ going to puke in front of whoever's watching you-_ Shit! I roll out of the bed -funny, this almost looks like a room at the district doctor's- onto the floor, grabbing a trash can. I kneel over the trash bin for a second, and then I'm puking my guts out into it. My hands shakily grasp the rim, and I have this sense of deja vu, only with the sink in my bathroom. Vomit splatters the bottom of the bin over and over, and my head pounds.

I look up between retching and see a figure dressed in all white, like a doctor. Wait, it _is_ the district doctor. So why aren't I packed into a room with a bunch of other sick people? Oh, yeah, I'm the victor, and Gran would do anything for me. I look up at the doctor for a second, and the next second I retch again. In a minute or so, when I'm pretty sure I'm done puking, the doctor hauls me back into bed. He looks me in the eyes. "Do you feel any significant pain?" he asks.

"No," I say. "N-not anymore." I'm kind of ashamed to hear my voice trembling. "Why, you want me to feel pain? 'Cause I've felt enough of that, motherfucker, believe me."

The doctor isn't fazed by my direct insult, though I don't suspect that his patients call him a motherfucker on a regular basis. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice even and calm. "Think about it. You were just vomiting up blood a few seconds ago." Blood? Ugh. I sneak a quick glance at the trash can. Ew. There's a pool of blood with a little vomit in the bottom. "You're unbelievably lucky to be alive," he says coolly. "Your grandmother must care about you very much, because she called the Peacekeepers and got them to break down the door. And do you know how they found you?" I stay silent, not meeting his eyes. It always seems to come back to something like this. "You were on the floor, rapidly losing blood, with deep cuts in your wrists, a slight concussion, and you were high on morphling pills and had severely overdosed."

"Fucking good for me," I mutter sullenly. "Couldn't you have left me that way?" _Wait, what am I saying? Is this Addict Spark or Rebel Bitch that's talking right now?_

The doctor's face hardens. "You do realize that you were literally seconds away from dying when you got here," he says, his voice steely. "Your heart stopped multiple times. You were _this_ close to dead." He holds up his hand with his thumb and index finger practically touching, his face serious.

I try to make my face look serious. "And you're this close to getting killed by me," I say solemnly, holding up my middle finger.

This usually gets people good and pissed off at me, and yeah, it works again. "I'm getting tired of your attitude, young lady," the doctor says coldly. "I'm not going to put up with this much longer." He gets out a clipboard with paper and a pen, ready to start writing. "I'm going to ask you a few questions..."

"Who do you think you are, fucking Caesar Flickerman?" I snap.

"... and then we'll decide what to do with you," he says, obliviously ignoring my previous statement. He sits back in a chair next to my bed. "Answer as honestly as you can. All right, first question..." He checks his paper. "Tell me about your drug use."

At first, I'm thinking that I should either lie or punch his lights out. Then I decide, what the fuck? I don't give a shit anymore. The Capitol has already taken enough from me, so they can take my secrets, too. "I... I don't know what to say," I admit. "I know I'm an addict, and I'm not sure what to think. I either love drugs or I'm forced to use them."

"No one's forcing you," says the doctor quietly. "What do you mean, you're forced to use drugs?"

For a second, I'm hesitant about telling him about Addict Spark. I think I'm crazy... or maybe I know it. But then I can't stop talking. "There's this voice that talks to me all the time," I say. "My... alter ego, I guess. My evil side. Addict Spark. She convinces me to take more drugs... and more drugs. Even if I'm half-dead, I do everything she says." The doctor's listening patiently, but I can tell that I'm scaring the shit out of him. I sound insane. And I am, aren't I? "She sometimes tells me to have a few drinks, or cut some more, but it's almost always her telling me to take some more drugs. Saying, 'What's the harm? Just a few more pills, then another bottle of 'em.' And even though I don't want to, I keep overdosing."

The doctor nods, scribbling a lot of stuff down on his papers, then moving on to a new question. And it goes on like this for a while. I know perfectly well that this is concerning my mental health, but I don't hesitate to say that truth. It's mostly stuff about my victory. My drugs, my morphling. My life. My emotions. And he seems pretty curious about Addict Spark. I don't know what to think, because I'm scaring myself with this. I alternate between yelling at the district doctor to crying my eyes out so much that I can barely get out a word.

Once a few hours of questioning has passed, the doctor finally puts down his clipboard. "All right," he says. "I may not be the best out there, but however, all of the district doctors, even in the lower districts, had to pass training in the Capitol. And..." He scans the papers, filled with his scribbles. Scribbles about _me._ "I know enough to conclude, however, that you are severely addicted to morphling and mildly addicted to other drugs..." Okay, I was expecting that one, but it still hits me like someone threw a brick at my head. "You have severe post-traumatic stress disorder..." Oh, shit. I had a feeling that that would come up sooner or later. "You most likely have bipolar disorder... and it's concluded that you are suicidal and mentally unstable."

I take a deep breath, leaning against the pillows on my bed. "You mean, I'm a crazy drug addict," I say quietly, but I hear the edge to my own voice. "Don't you." It isn't a question. Not anymore. I know that I am, but it's never been told straight out to my face before.

"Unfortunately, yes," says the doctor. I would usually punch him and snap his neck or something, but I'm too numb. "Oh, and your alter ego, your 'evil side', as you call it, Addict Spark... that's your insanity and drug addiction. You've given the addiction that fuels your insanity a name. And I suppose that you're right in a way, about the addition being your alter ego or your evil side, because you've given a name and a voice to insanity and drug addiction, and you blame it for whatever you do, when it's _really_ the addiction in you that wins out against your rational side."

I don't really give a fuck as to what he's saying. But even though it sounds like a load of psychological shit, it kind of makes sense. Wait, no, Addict Spark is real. Very, very real. It's her fault that I'm this way now. I look down at my clothes -the same as I was wearing earlier, only washed- and my stitched-up wrists. I just can't look at the motherfucker that just told me I was crazy. "When are you going to let me out of here?" I ask.

"Sometime soon, hopefully," says the doctor absentmindedly. He hands me a clipboard with paper and a pen. I don't know exactly why the hell he's doing this, but then he explains. "Okay, this is going to sound stupid, but you need therapy, Spark," he says. "I want you to write a letter to someone you love and tell them how you feel." He stands up. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes. Have something written."

"Motherfucker, I'm not some little kid!" I yell, but he slams the door, leaving me alone with the stupid piece of paper and the fucking pen and the goddamn _therapy_. Well, _I'll_ show that motherfucker. I put the pen to the paper and start writing out my 'letter'. And it's true. It's a love letter. A tale of star-crossed lovers. It is to someone that I love. Well, some_thing_ would be a better way to put it:

_Dear morphling pills,_

_I love you. Seriously. I can't fucking live without you. Every time I try to stop, I can't. I'm addicted to you. I'm in love with you. Oh, my darling drugs, it was love at first sight. The first time I overdosed on you, I knew that I wouldn't ever be able to let you go. I can't stop. I feel like I always come back to you. I come back to my bathroom and use up all my stashes of you under my sink. When I get high on you, it's the best feeling ever. All the stupid fucking pain goes away, and I'm actually kind of happy. Either that, or you make me cry. You make me punch holes in the walls and scream for more. It's kind of a painful relationship, but hey, if I love you, that means that I love pain too. And of course I love you. And after I get high, I pass out on the floor or in my bathtub or something. It's almost like sex, even._

_I miss you. I can't even tell you how much I miss getting high off of you. We're star-crossed lovers. I'm here, pining for you. I think I'm losing it without you. But I've already lost it, I guess. Anyway, I love you so much. It was like a first kiss when I took that first pills. And it was like losing my virginity to you, my darling drugs, when I first overdosed in the arena. I think it was the best moment of my life._

_Anyway, I love you so much. I miss you. I want you back. I can't wait to overdose again. I FUCKING LOVE YOU, MY DARLING DRUGS!_

_From Addict Spark / Rebel Bitch._

I set down the pen, and the doctor comes back in. "Do you have it done?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, handing him the letter. It's kind of funny to watch his eyes widen as he reads it. "Guess I really do need some therapy, huh?"

After a few seconds of stunned silence, the district doctor answers. "Absolutely," he says.

**Anyone else laugh their heads off reading Spark's love letter? I did while writing it. :) Tell me what you think!**


	3. Almost Forgotten

**Hey! :) Thanks to Anarchy Girl and daydreamer626 for reviewing. That drug love letter was funny, right? Anyway. Here's chapter three. I was actually going to have this be part of chapter 2, but I decided not to.**

**Anyone else notice the advertisements during this story, you know, the ones that are on like every page of FanFiction? It's definitely not a coincidence that just the other day when I clicked on this story, there were two advertisements on the page of chapter 2- becoming an addiction counselor and going to rehab for free. :D I was cracking up at that...**

_**Almost Forgotten**_

"You're leaving this afternoon," says the district doctor grudgingly, slamming a stack of papers down on my beside table. I can barely nod. If the first few hours after I woke up were torture, then this is much worse. I'm practically screaming, but they've got me on a lot of drugs. No, not morphling, although morphling's a good painkiller. They refused to put me on morphling. And it's only been three days. Three days without my beautiful drugs. Three days where they've tried to get the morphling out of my system. Three days that they've tried to heal me. Three days where they've literally had to pump stuff into my body to keep me alive, because I refuse to eat or drink.

Three miserable days.

And now I've got tubes sticking out of my arms and legs, and I'm in a state of half-sedation. They don't have me on anything to make me pass out or sleep or whatever, but I've still got some of the shit left in my blood. My mind's hazy, and it's fucking good, because it's the closest to my precious drugs that I've got right now. But I'm having trouble focusing, or seeing clearly, and I can't seem to break through the light haze into either true fog or cloudless sunshine. "Good for me," I say rustily. I can barely talk.

"Whoa, whoa," says the doctor, smirking. "You're not out of the woods yet." I glare at him, but my hands, feet, arms, and legs are strapped to the bed, so I can't move. Much less give him the middle finger. They think I'm so crazy that I have to have a Peacekeeper with me when I go down the hall to the bathroom, even. It's insane. "Your grandmother, as your legal guardian, has agreed to... well, I'll leave that news for someone else to give you." I feel a sort of _thrum_ go through my heart, like a bowstring being released to send a deadly arrow into me. "But as for now, I believe you have a visitor." The doctor unplugs me from a few of the IVs that likely contain sedation drugs, and raises my bed so I'm sitting up.

"Gran again?" I mutter. She comes every few hours to check on me. As if I'm doing anything interesting besides getting the drugs sifted out of my blood. And anyway, they've removed the scars and cuts on my wrists with Capitol technology, so it's not like she can fret over that. But then the door opens, and it's not Gran. It's someone who I haven't seen in months. Somewhere around three and a half months, to be exact. Someone who I've almost forgotten, and who has barely lingered in my mind.

Jake Paylor.

The doctor leaves, leaving us alone, and he sits down next to my bed. "Hey," he says with a grin. He brushes a strand of my greasy brown hair out of my eyes. "Hear you've been messing with morphling a lot, Rebel Girl. And alcohol. And cutting." His face turns serious. "Look, Spark, you're the closest we've ever gotten -and probably the closest we'll _ever_ get- to someone who can bring down the Capitol for good. And we can't afford you to kill yourself or get hooked on morphling."

"I'm already hooked on morphling," I say tonelessly. "See that 'letter' on the table right there? The one addressed to morphling pills? I wrote that. And that's how I feel. You're too late." Jake reaches out and grabs the letter, reading it. He actually looks a little sick while reading it. Then he puts it down, looking absolutely shocked and defeated. A little ill.

"Oh my fucking god," he mutters. "That's actually how you feel?" I nod. "And what's the shit about 'Addict Spark'? The district doctor thinks you have an imaginary friend or something."

"She's not imaginary, and we're not friends," I say immediately. "She's my evil side. She's my alter ego. She's the part of me that keeps saying, 'Oh, just a few more pills.' The doctor says that I've just given a voice to my darker thoughts and drug addiction."

Jake nods absently. Then he looks me straight in the eyes. "Spark, I need to tell you something," he says. "There's been no organized rebellion whatsoever before, but... the districts are waiting for you to make a move. That is to say... you're going to overthrow the Capitol and remake Panem for good." My head's already spinning. "And I'm not going to let you fade into the shadows and overdose yourself to death with your morphling pills. You're going to be the rebel leader of Panem, and one of the three District Four leaders. The other two are Finnick and I." He pauses. "You think that you can get through recovery?"

"I'm not anywhere close to recovery. And I'd have a relapse before that could happen," I say dully. I almost can't believe that the districts want me to lead a rebellion. "How is this going to happen, anyway? The rebellion, I mean."

"Easy," says Jake with a grin. "You're gonna be a mentor this year in the Games, I know that for sure. And while in the Capitol, you're going to wreck havoc in some way. Just like last time. And at your Victory Tour." He seems so confident. So dependent on me. I shiver. "You can do that, right, Spark?"

"I want to, but I'm not sure if I can," I say. "You know. The drugs." He understands that, definitely, but his face falls, and he looks disappointed. "I'll try, okay? That's the best I can do for now." Just then, the doctor comes into the room, glaring venomously at us.

"Your time's up, Paylor," he snaps, pointing to the door. Jake sighs and stands up, smiling at me as he leaves. The door shuts behind him, and I find myself staring at it. Man, if I weren't a drug addict victor, then I'd be turned on by his good looks. The dark brown hair, the dark but bright eyes, the tan skin, the muscular build. He's pretty sexy. I hazily see the doctor turn on the television across the room. I'm not paying much attention until I hear my name.

"Latest from District Four!" a Capitol reporter trills happily on the TV. I squint to look closer. "The rumors we've been hearing about our latest victor, Spark Reviz, have been confirmed. She's currently in the District Four hospital-slash-doctor's-office, after apparently overdosing on morphling pills, cutting her wrists, and getting a mild concussion from hitting her head on the wall in her bathroom. According to a recent diagnosis, she suffers from severe post-traumatic stress disorder, possible bipolar disorder, suicidal tendencies, insanity, and severe addiction to morphling, with minor addiction to alcohol and various other prescription medications. Whether or not she's scheduled for rehab or counseling, we don't know yet. Stay tuned for the next update."

"Turn it off," I say quietly, but even as I'm speaking, I feel the tears sting in my eyes. It's all over the Capitol now. That I'm a crazy drug addict. The doctor doesn't listen, turning it up with a smirk as the screen fades to... holy motherfucking shit. My Games! My fucking _Games_, in reruns! There's me, running around in the caves, puking up blood -shit, I know where this is going- and there's the Careers. There's me, getting violently raped and fucked so repeatedly and so much that I could barely move without pain. And then -I almost forgot this part- the Careers holding me down while Victor beats me.

"TURN IT OFF, YOU SON OF A BITCH!" I bellow. He just grins and turns up the volume. I see myself, sipping water out of my cupped hands, my clothes sticking to my sweaty skin. I hear myself sniffle and almost start to cry. "Stop it _stop it_ STOP IT!" I yell, my voice gradually getting louder. "Stupid motherfucking son of a bitch! Fucking asshole! _Turn - it - off!_" I'm breathing hard and quickly, my heart pounding like a drumbeat. I start sweating. Between this and no morphling, I think I might be going into some kind of shock.

He turns off the television, and I relax, exhaling as I slump against the bed. "Motherfucking son of a bitch," I say, my eyelids drooping, the tension going out of my body. The doctor walks over to my bed, carefully undoing the straps that hold me down and unplugging me from the tubes and IVs.

"I trust that you won't try to pull a fast one on me, Miss Reviz," says the doctor. I don't do anything. I'm trapped in my own head right now. Thinking about my drugs. Oh my fucking god, I need some morphling. It _is_ like star-crossed lovers. My little drug love letter was one hundred percent right. And true. I swing my legs off the edge of the bed, standing up shakily, stretching. I sit down in the chair next to my bed. I can't stand being in here for another second.

The doctor's phone rings in the corner of the room, and he picks it up. "Hello?" he says. "Oh... _oh_." He grins. "All right." He looks happy, though a little bit flustered. _Shut the fuck up and let me out of here!_ He hangs up and faces me. "You have another visitor before you leave," he says, grinning.

"Who?" I mumble, not really caring at this point. I just want to get out of here and go home so I can overdose so bad that nothing will be able to save my pitiful life now. But there's a knock at the door, and the doctor quickly opens it, letting the person in. And it's not my grandmother. It's not Jake again. No, it's another person who I wanted to forget, but never could. That same scent of those same motherfucking roses. The same... oh, fuck it, what am I saying? I'm just stalling to pretend that maybe I'm wrong, maybe it's not him.

But it is. It's President Snow. Flanked by two burly-looking Peacekeepers.

He sits across from me with a Peacekeeper on each side, waving away the doctor, who leaves the room. "Hello, Miss Reviz," he says calmly, picking up my 'drug love letter' from the small table. He raises his eyebrows as he reads. "Looks like you've got quite the drug problem."

I'm practically shaking in anger. I know that the Capitol's his, but District Four is _mine_. Untouchable. And he's broken down the walls just to find me. The broken drug addict victor who is barely human anymore. And why bother?... wait. I suddenly remember something he said in the Capitol. About forcing me to be a Peacekeeper and one of his victor prostitutes if I won. And I did win. Shit! "Looks like you're still the same disgusting motherfucker as always," I say. "Why the fuck are you here?"

President Snow chuckles dryly. "Someone's got a little bit of temper left, hmm?" he says. "I'll overlook that for now. And why am I here?" He smiles pleasantly. Stupid rose-breath son of a bitch. "I was thinking. You obviously need to stop with the drugs, most especially the morphling. It's killing you, and I don't want you dead quite yet." _Yet? _I think. _Why wait?_ He sees my expression. "Oh, what I mean is... I believe that you're not the only rebel in your district, Miss Reviz. And do you remember my promise, that I'd make you into a Peacekeeper and sell you off to the Capitol, so to speak." My throat tightens, and my stomach's doing flip-flops now. Oh my fucking god, I think I'm going to puke. I'm still going to have to-

"No," President Snow adds. "You're an absolute wreck. You're no longer fit to sell your body." I sigh in relief quietly. Maybe then I can stay here. "Now, now, wait a moment," he says. "You're still going to be a Peacekeeper. And a mentor. It's come to my attention that your... _friend_, Jake Paylor-"

"I'm _not_ sleeping with him!" I interject angrily.

"Calm down," Snow says. "I've decided that both of you need to be taught a lesson. So I'm taking you both to District Eight for Peacekeeper training." _Shit!_ I think. "You'll be trained, and then stationed in the district for the rest of your lives. However, Spark, you'll be coming back to District Four and the Capitol for the Games." He pauses. "And there's no way for you to change that. What's your opinion?"

"Fuck you," I spit out, holding up my middle finger. I can't even smile at flipping him off. In fact, I haven't genuinely smiled ever since I got back to District Four. "I hope you die! I'll dance on your grave and spit on your body! I'll burn the whole fucking Capitol-"

"Now, now," says President Snow calmingly. "It's really too bad that you have that opinion, because you leave..." He checks his watch. "...well, it's three in the afternoon now, and you'll leave here in a minute and go to your home. And you leave for District Eight at eight tonight."

There it goes. I can see it, and so can Addict Spark. We're both watching all our dreams go down the drain, and feeling every opportunity slip through our fingers. There goes my life. There goes the rebellion. And there goes everything I care about. Even my motherfucking _drugs_. No more morphling. No more District Four. No more rebellion. No more anything, because the Capitol's taking it all away.


	4. Faded to Shadows

**Hey, people! I'm back from my vacation, so I'm really sorry for not updating. I had NO time (or no internet). Plus some major writer's block. Thanks to Anarchy Girl and Sabrina Mellark for reviewing. I know that you guys think that this is going to get boring, but I have a rule that I try to follow at all times: NO boring stories. :)**

**Also, I've got a new SYOT up called Lose Yourself (after the Eminem song). It's open, so feel free to submit! Plus the idea is EPIC in my opinion. Check it out! :D And a couple of song parodies, so check those out too!**

_**Faded to Shadows**_

As President Snow leaves, I bow my head, resting my forehead on my palms with my elbows on my knees. "Shit," I moan quietly, almost a whisper. My stomach churns. "Shiiit." How the fuck did I get myself into this? Oh, yeah, I'm alive. My stupid motherfucking rebel parents decided to fuck enough to get a twisted, fucked-up little bastard like me. And they _had_ to go and get caught and killed. And to leave me alive. All alone except for my grandmother. And now I've got nothing. Not even my drugs. No family left, because I'm leaving. I've got nothing but myself. And I hope that, whatever type of transportation we're taking to Eight, there's plenty of medicine cabinets stocked with plenty of morphling and other prescription pills...

_We!_ I suddenly remember that I'm not going alone. Jake Paylor's coming with me... shit. He was nice enough when he said goodbye to me after the reaping, and when we worked on the fishing boat together, but now I'm not so sure. It's like something I used to know how to do, but my skills have gone away. And what does he think? He thinks that I'm more than I am. That I can be a rebel, but I just can't do this anymore. And fuck it, he's going to blame it on me. I just need more morphling. Oh, _shit_, it's been days since my last dose of the stuff.

I stand up quickly, staggering a little bit. President Snow said that I'm leaving in a minute. Maybe that's enough time to break myself beyond any repair. I sit on the edge of my bed, emptying all the syringes full of drugs that I can find, mixing them into a disgusting, syrupy-textured soup of drugs in an empty, clean wastebasket. I feel like puking as soon as the medicine-y smell hits my nose, but Addict Spark is back. "Just a little," she says. "Just take a few mouthfuls of that stuff, and you won't have to worry about District Eight. It's going to kill you, and you're going to be fine."

It doesn't make sense, but I never disobey what Addict Spark says. My hands clench around the trash bin full of drugs. Yeah, I'm going to die. This shit's meant to be taken in your bloodstream, not orally. Besides, it's about ten different drugs mixed together. I raise the trash bin to my lips, tipping it up, swallowing the saliva in my mouth. My hands start shaking.

"I can't do this," I whisper. But that's got multiple meanings. "I can't go to District Eight. I fucking can't."

"That's the spirit!" Addict Spark says triumphantly. It's like she's shoving the drugs to my mouth. "Come on, take a drink, swallow, take another 'till you drop dead! You know that's what you want."

"Yeah..." I mutter hazily, leaning against the wall and slumping over a little. The liquid sloshes in the bucket, and some touches my lips. I hesitantly part them, letting the drugs fill my mouth. Addict Spark's telling me to swallow, but I just let the drugs swirl around my tongue for a few seconds. I miss my drugs. Star-crossed lovers, aren't we? No morphling, but shit, this feels so good. I finally relax the tension in my body and swallow, just swallowing the drugs.

The door bursts open, letting in a few Peacekeepers. But I hope it's too late, because I'm already leaning against the wall heavily just to stay upright, and the world's spinning, and my body is pulsing to a rhythm that the drugs decided. One of the Peacekeepers strides over to me. Seeing the trash can, he swears loudly. "Get over here!" he calls to his comrades. "This little bitch is trying to kill herself again!"

One of the Peacekeepers, a different one than before, forces me to sit up. He reaches his fingers into my mouth easily, and then I feel my gag reflex kick in. I try to hold in my precious drugs, but then I'm retching over the trash can again, my vomit mixing with the drugs that are left. The first Peacekeeper pounds me on the back, forcing me to empty my stomach of the drugs. When I'm done, I fall back onto the pillows, weakly wiping my mouth on the sheets. "Fuck you," I say, my voice hoarse.

"I'd rather not have that happen," says the first Peacekeeper coolly. "Get up. You're taking a train to District Eight tonight." I refuse to stand. I'm not going to let them take me... but in the end, they pull me into a standing position. "We'll escort you home. You don't need to take anything with you, since it will be all provided at the Peacekeeper training area in District Eight." He grins, and I fucking want to punch his lights out. "Actually, it's more of a Capitol thing. It's on the very edge of the district. Kind of like the Training Center."

I almost faint right then, but I keep up with them as they walk to the elevator. It's a little old and creaky, but we manage to get to the first floor without trouble. All I'm thinking is the seductive, tantalizing possibility of overdosing when I get home. Getting home, getting high, and getting dead. That last part's the best. Best for last.

When I get home, the Peacekeepers leave, promising to come back at eight o'clock sharp tonight to pick me up and take me to the train, which will take me to District Eight. Ha. So they think. I'm just planning on going up to my room and overdosing worse than I've ever done before. But they assure me, "Oh, your grandmother won't let that happen!" Oh, yes she will. I'll lock myself in the bedroom, and then lock myself in the bathroom, and use up all my morphling and other drugs.

I walk inside, slamming the door, running up the stairs and almost tripping. Drugs... drugs drugs drugs! I stumble up the stairs as fast as I can, but then I almost run into my grandmother. "Hey," I say quickly, running down the hall and shutting my door with a crash that sends a perfect Capitol portrait of the ocean smashing on the ground. But my grandmother beats me to locking the door.

"Spark," she says sternly, practically dragging me out of the room. I stubbornly stand in one place, knowing that she's too weak and old to fight back. My arms are crossed, and I scowl. "Spark. No more drugs." She unexpectedly pushes me out of my room gently, locking the door. "There. Look, Spark, you really can't keep doing this to yourself." Her watery eyes look at me closely. "Look at you."

She guides me into one of the many bathrooms, and for some reason, I don't resist her. She lightly turns me toward the flawlessly polished mirror. "Look," she says quietly. And I look. I look, even though I know I shouldn't do it. And I hate what I see. The stringy, short brown hair that hangs in my eyes, greasy and unwashed. The pale blue eyes that stare back at me hatefully. The almost skeletal-like emaciated body. The pronounced dark circles beneath my eyes. My hands reach out to touch my reflection, my fingers sliding across the glass. It's cold under my fingertips, and shivers start to run through my body. My stomach twists. I feel sick.

And there, out of the mirror, comes the shadow of myself that is taking over. Addict Spark is back. "There," she hisses. "There. Look at yourself. This is you without drugs, Rebel Bitch. See?" She's smirking now, and my head starts spinning. I almost hear echoes of voices in my head.

_"That's my beautiful little spark of rebellion!"_ says my father's voice, and I almost feel him ruffling my hair.

_"There anything in it for me, Rebel Girl?"_ Victor asks smoothly, and all that he wants is sex. Rape. And I'm in the arena again.

_"And if you had any sense in your head, you wouldn't be yelling, you'd _watch for it_!" _Tess yells furiously.

_"You know that, right? That you're crazy? To get high in the Hunger Games and act like the Capitol doesn't mean shit?" _Sage sneers as the world ignites on fire around me. I'm back in the arena, high and crazed.

It echoes in my head. _You're crazy... you want to be high... you're a drug addict... a morphling addict... suicidal... you lost it... look at you... you're a wreck... all because of the motherfucking Hunger Games..._

And that's my breaking point.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!" I yell at the top of my lungs. My fist automatically moves forward, punching out the mirror. There goes my reflection. There goes Addict Spark for now. And I'm crazy, crazy, so crazy. My whole body's trembling as I stare into the shards of mirror. I see fragments of myself in the glass. My rainy-blue-gray eyes. My sallow skin. The greasy hair. All different pieces of myself, scattered around. Nothing can put me back together.

Gran guides me quickly out of the bathroom and into one of the spare rooms. We sit on the couch, and she locks the door. I can't run. I can't run away from this shit anymore. "Spark," she says softly. "I know that you don't want to hear this, but... you're a danger to yourself." My whole body shivers. It's true, isn't it? It must be. "You've got to stop. I know that they're taking you away, honey. I _know_ that they want you either on their side or dead. But you've got to stay fighting."

"Stay... fighting," I repeat numbly, dizzily. I don't know what else to say.

"Yes," says my grandmother, nodding and smiling. But it's a sad smile. "You can't let the Games kill you even though you're the victor. See, the way I see things... Spark, you survived for a reason, you know." She looks at me like she's willing me to believe it. "I heard you were drinking liquid sedation drugs out of a trash bin?" I nod, shrugging. "Spark. That's disgusting. I know that you can get over this." She pauses for a moment. "You're going to stay here until the Peacekeepers come to pick you up, okay? No overdosing."

I stand up. "What the _fuck_?" I yell. Addict Spark is cheering me on. _You can do this, Rebel Bitch!_ she chants in my mind. "What the... I-I-I... I _need_ drugs!" But even as I say it, I know that it's a lie and a truth. I need drugs to keep myself going. I want them so I can dull the pain and make myself happy for once again. I love drugs more than anything else in the whole wide world. But at the same time, I hate drugs. I hate them like hell and I never want to get high again. But the drugs and Addict Spark talk to me, telling me to have more... and more... And I obey them every single fucking time!

Gran looks me in the eyes. "You don't need drugs," she says. "You'll get over it. You really don't need drugs. Think about it. Do you want -or need- more drugs, or are you just addicted?"

I think about it for a second. I truly do try to think about it. "Uh... neither," I say. I feel like I'm towering over my frail, weak grandmother, who is still sitting, but I stay standing up. "I'm not addicted. I'm really not. Addict Spark talks to me and makes me have more-"

"No one can _make_ you do anything," says Gran sharply. "And 'Addict Spark' is addiction. You've just given it a voice inside your head."

I continue, no matter what she's saying. "And the drugs. They talk to me too. It's all telling me to keep overdosing and getting high. And it feels good... and then I feel like shit." I mean to take a breath, but instead, a short sniffle comes out. Tears leak out of my eyes, and I collapse face down on the bed. I'm almost smothering in the overly soft pillows. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" I choke out, biting my lower lip to keep from full-out sobbing.

I hear the couch creak a little as Gran stands up, hearing her light footsteps on the floor. "I don't know," she says. "I really don't know." Then I hear her walking toward the door, and I'm thinking, _no, don't leave._ And as she opens the door, locking it behind her as she leaves, she adds, "I really am going to miss you, you know."

* * *

Hours pass. I never have any intention of leaving that motherfucking room. I refuse dinner, even though I'm starving. I'm just so fucking depressed and furious at myself. I notice with pain that Gran removed all 'dangerous' objects from the room -letter openers, mirrors, even potted plants are gone. So I can't hurt myself at all. I can't do anything. I just lie on the bed, thinking one though over and over. _I want to die. I should be dead._ And no one understands! No one gets it but me! There's a few times when I just break down crying.

Then my door opens, and I sit up, rubbing my eyes. There are the Peacekeepers again. "Get up," one says sharply. "And change into these clothes. You can't go around looking like that." I discover that I'm wearing threadbare, gray clothing from the district doctor's, and I blush. A Peacekeeper tosses me some clothes. A heavy black jacket, tight black jeans, black combat boots, a hairtie to hold my short hair back in a ponytail, black socks, and a black shirt. It reminds me of my arena outfit, and I hesitate.

They don't turn their backs, but I don't care anymore. I'm a wreck. Barely human. Not the girl that's worth of raping anymore. Even the tight clothes -well, tight except for the large jacket- fit a little looser on me than they should.

"Come on, let's go," barks a Peacekeeper, dragging me out the door and down the stairs. I stumble after him in the overlarge boots, almost tripping over the loosely tied laces. He opens the door. "Mrs. Reviz, we're taking your granddaughter!" he calls.

Gran comes into the room. Seeing me, she gives me a big hug. "Goodbye," she says. "Remember not to give up, Spark." I'm about to protest, but she shushes me. "_Remember_ that." Then the Peacekeepers pull her away, and the last thing I see of my grandmother is a flash of white hair as I'm pushed out the door.

* * *

My hand reaches into my pocket the second that I'm left in the room of the Justice Building. I swear there's something in it. Something that Gran slipped me. _Morphling, please..._ I think desperately, but no. When I dig it out, I see a necklace. A thick silver chain like that of my old district token, but this time, the pendant is a stone. Smoothed from being tossed around in the ocean. Quartz, almost greenish, sparkling white. My hands are shaking a little. And for some crazy reason, I bring my lips to the stone and kiss it. One last piece of home.

My district token, only it's different now.

I clasp it behind my neck and tuck it into my jacket and underneath my shirt. No one can see it now. I'm never going to let anyone take it from me, like what happened to my first district token.

Waiting in that same fucking room in the Justice Building, the same room I said my goodbyes before I went to the Capitol as a tribute, I have this awful sense of deja vu. It's like I'm a tribute again. Me and Jake. It's like we're on our way to the Training Center, one that last for months. And then the arena is hell. I'm headed for hell- also known as being a Peacekeeper.

The train's a little late, but only by a few minutes. I'm starting to think that maybe I'm going to get out of this after all, but no. A Peacekeeper comes in. "Get up. The train's here," he says sharply. I stand up, my knees a little weak. I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants, following the Peacekeeper. I don't feel like trying to get away. It's too late to do anything to help me. It's been too late ever since I was born to a couple of rebels.

This time, it's not the tribute train that waits for me at the platform. This time, it's a train that has the words DISTRICT EIGHT- TEXTILES emblazoned on the sides. I guess it's a train that carries fabric to the Capitol and the districts. And now it's going to carry me and Jake Paylor to District Eight.

The Peacekeepers escort me to a room on the train, all by myself. I'm surprised for a second, actually. It looks so much like my quarters on the tribute train. Same fancy room with a bathroom leading off it. Same... almost everything, really. The Peacekeepers see my confusion. "Oh, there's always some Capitol Peacekeepers who use these rooms on the trains," one explains, and they leave, the automatic doors shutting behind them after a few seconds.

As soon as it sinks in that I'm alone -even though I know that I'm being watched- I go into the bathroom. Shit! The medicine cabinet is locked. Well, locks have never really stopped someone like me. I raise my fist, like I'm punching out that motherfucking mirror again, and smash my hand into the wood... shit! "Fuck!" I hiss in pain, holding my throbbing hand to my stomach and doubling over, squeezing my eyes shut for a second.

Then I heave myself onto the counter next to the sink and the cabinet. Carefully, oh so carefully, I kick out at the cabinet. This time, the area that I kicked splinters, breaking the doors enough for me to get them open. I pull out pill bottle after pill bottle, sitting down on the counter, my knees up to my chest, the pill bottles balancing on my knees. I dump handful after handful into my mouth. I have no idea what I'm putting into my body, what I'm doing to myself, but I don't care by now. I just want to die.

Then, after what must be hours, I hear a sound that I'm hating right now. As the sparkles swirl. As the lights flash neon. As butterflies the color of President Snow's best red roses become a scarlet tornado around me. And the sound is those goddamn automatic doors opening.

I stagger into the main part of the room. Ah, shit, I'm going down. I trip over what is likely my own feet and end up hitting the floor face first. I struggle to my feet, leaning heavily on the walls. "Go away," I mutter to the blurry figure. Jake? A Peacekeeper? President Snow? I have no fucking idea. "Get the fuck away from me."

"Calm down, Spark," they say, laughing. It's a male voice. I find myself falling forward for a second, but then I feel a pair of strong arms catch me and pull me onto the bed. "It's okay, baby," they say softly. My head's in their lap, and I'm thinking, _what the fuck, let me go so I can get my head off your dick_! But I can't move. I feel like I'm comfortable, actually. Sleepy. I can barely see, but as I drift into unconsciousness, I realize something.

It's Jake Paylor.


	5. We All Fall Down

**Hey! I know you're all on the edge of your seats... okay, kidding. Thanks to Anarchy Girl and someasiankid (Guest) for reviewing! Since I can't reply to the last by PM: Thanks, that really made my day. :) And before you ask, the few people who read this: yes, there's going to be a little bit of romance in this story. It won't kill you... it'll kill ME, since I completely suck at writing romance! But don't worry, this is going to be mostly action and suspense and all that good stuff. :)**

_**We All Fall Down**_

You know, you really find yourself when you wake up. I know that now. You're in a haze between sleeping and being awake -wanting a second to linger in the happy fog, even though it's all fake-, but then something pushes you out. And all of a sudden, you know where you are. You orient yourself. Sometimes you can, sometimes you can't. But I find myself with my head in someone's lap, weak and barely able to move. I find myself half-dead. I find myself with drugs pumping through my system. I find myself as I am about to lose myself.

My eyes flutter open. I feel a little dizzy as I see the ceiling above me. "Uhh," I moan quietly, blinking the light out of my eyes. It's too bright for me. But I actually feel safe. Almost comfortable. "Where the fuck... am I... ahh." A flash of pain strikes me as I try to sit up. "Someone just kill me."

"Not anytime soon, Sparkler," says a voice. Jake. Oh my fucking God, I was passed out... with my head in Jake's lap... vulnerable... Yeah, so what if I'm paranoid? I tense up, even though the small movement of my muscles hurts like hell itself. I feel his hand on my shoulder. "Shh. Don't try to sit up or anything. It's okay."

_"No it's not, you FUCKING LIAR!"_ I yell, my vision blurring in and out of gray as I slide off Jake's lap and onto the floor. My face is in the carpet. "It's not okay. I'm not gonna be okay," I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. Why am I crying? For the thousandth time, what the fuck is wrong with me? I guess I'm never going to figure this out. "We're going to the Hunger Games. I'm gonna be a tribute again."

"No, you're not," says Jake, pulling me to my feet. I stagger against the bed, my head spinning. He sees the fear in my eyes. "Well... yeah. You are." He sits down next to me. "I guess, in your eyes, that'd be the easiest way to see things. Like this is the Hunger Games. And we're district partners. Tributes." He pauses, taking a deep breath. "You know that we're not coming back this time. We can't even hope- oh, shit." He stands up. "Why the fuck am I saying this around you? You're probably going to cut your wrists over every word."

"It's... okay with me, I guess," I say tentatively. "Hey, Jake?" I ask as he's about to go. "I think I was dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or whatever the fuck you call the things that happen in my head when I'm high. But I kind of remember you coming into the room and telling me it was okay..." I remember something. "You called me 'baby'."

Jake actually blushes, walking out the door. "Come to my room in a few minutes, we can have some breakfast," he says, and then he's gone. The slam of his bedroom door brings me back to earth, getting my mind kicked into gear again.

_Breakfast?_ I think. _"Come to my room in a few minutes, we can have some breakfast."_ That isn't exactly an answer, but something about it -I guess I've got a perverted mind- makes me blush. Oh, shit, I was out for a while, if it's breakfast time. I yawn, stumbling into the bathroom. Shit. It's a wreck. Empty and half-full pill bottles everywhere, bloody water on the ground -I feel a short cut on my forehead now-, the mirror broken.

I wrecked this place.

And there's something about that that makes me gasp in pain. I lean against the wall, steadying myself. The broken glass on the floor is like me. Broken glass on the floor that's been stomped on. Most of the glass picked up on someone's boots, leaving only dust left that is barely recognizable as what it once was anymore. That's me. That's me, the broken glass.

And maybe that's why I bend down to pick up the pieces and throw them in the trash.

I look in what's left of the mirror, and my reflection shocks me. My hair's greasy and matted. My eyes are hideously bloodshot, and there's the normal dark circles under my eyes. My clothes are soaked in sweat and sticking to my skin. But I don't care. I know that it's going to be better soon. They're going to whip me into shape when I get to District Eight. I'll stop relying on drugs, and I'll never need morphling again. I'll be the perfect rebel that Jake wants and that Panem needs. I'll-

Oh, this is full of shit. Who the fuck am I kidding? I'm always going to be this way. Broken glass. It's fate, I guess.

I take a deep breath, raking my hands through my hair, and then I open my bedroom door. It's like I'm on the edge of the world. Except I'm not. It's like a game that I used to play when I was little with the few kids that would play with someone like me. We would wade in the ocean and pretend the water was hot lava that would burn us up, hopping from sandbar to sandbar until we all 'melted' in the 'lava'. My room back home in the Victor's Village is dry land, my room here is the sandbar, and everywhere else is the burning lava.

And that's all it is. Life is just a game, I guess. Tag, I'm it. No tag-backs. _I can't take back all the shit I've been through._ Hide 'n' go seek- 1, 2, 3, 4... _and my eyes are closed while everyone hides. _Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall DOWN! _And I've fallen down. I once was a fire, but now I'm ashes. Ashes, ashes._

Why am I getting so choked up and worked up over a bedroom door, a hallway, and some childhood games? I step out into the hallway and quickly duck into Jake's room. I can't stay out in the lava for too long. I slam the door behind me, and there's Jake, sitting Indian-style on the floor. My eyes automatically go to his dick -is it just me, or did his pants seem a little looser before?-, and then I stop. Shit, I'm an idiot. _Stupid hormonal little bitch!_ I chastise myself. I feel myself blush bright red. Ugh. I'm so stupid. My palms sweat a little, and I wipe my hands on my pants.

"Hey," I manage to say, sitting down next to him. He's leaning against the wall, eating a roll. Somehow, he even looks handsome when he's chewing.

"I got us some breakfast," he says, swallowing and gesturing to the feast that covers the floor. There's one of those speaker-and-chute food delivering contraptions in his room, and probably mine too. I see sausage, eggs, bacon, pancakes, toast, hot chocolate... For the first time in months, I'm actually hungry. I grab a sausage and swallow it without chewing before I realize exactly how suggestive that looks. My face flushes. Forget the lava outside; I'll give its red shade a run for its money.

Jake raises an eyebrow as I suck the grease off my fingers. Well, that is, before I realize that that looks suggestive too. I blush lava-hot and lava-red now. "I bet your old chaperone would love your manners," he says, grinning. I shrug. "Hey, where's your smile, Sparky? Haven't seen that for a while." I shrug again. He knows perfectly well that I haven't genuinely smiled ever since I got home to District Four.

I don't say anything for a second, thinking. I'd bet anything that the Peacekeepers have cameras in here, watching our every move. Then Jake speaks up. "You know, I took out their cameras," he adds. "So say whatever you like." I remain silent. I'm tongue-tied. I feel so fucking _useless_. While I've been popping morphling pills and almost killing myself, he's been doing things that are actually worth something. "All right, then I'll talk." He faces me. "You know that we can't just become Peacekeepers and be prissy Capitol thugs for the rest of our lives."

"Yeah," I mutter. I can't meet his eyes. I feel guilty, since it was technically me that got him into this mess. "Sorry. This whole fucking thing is my fault."

"Hey," he says, cupping my chin with his left hand, forcing me to look at him. I pull away, but the warmth of his hand lingers on my face. "It's not your fault. It's the Capitol's fault, because they're stupid motherfucking assholes." He smiles at me, but I still somehow can't smile back. "Okay. So... see, since we're going to be in District Eight, I figure that we ought to stir up some uprisings there while we can."

"Sounds fine to me," I say. "But... look, they're gonna keep us busy with training and things. We need to sleep, you know."

"What you mean is, you want to save your nights for overdosing," Jake says. I nod after a second of hesitation. "Too bad. I'm not going to let you do that to yourself anymore. Do you have any idea how many people are resting their last hopes on your shoulders? Do you know how many people are relying on you? How many parents in the districts have practically staked their children's lives on you? Look, Spark... it's obvious if you look close enough. While _you've_ been sitting around getting high, I've been doing something useful."

I wonder for a second how the fuck he can read my mind, but I don't voice my thoughts. He continues. "I've been looking at statistics from the districts. You know, some hacking tips that I picked up. In all of the districts -barely any in the Career districts, extremely high numbers in the lower districts- there are women getting pregnant more than usual. If you look at graphs, the numbers shoot way up from the day you won the Games. The two things are related, you know." I shrug, showing that I don't get it. "All right, see..." He grins. "This means that people think that the Games will be over, and that their unborn children won't have to fear it, so they're jumping at the opportunity."

"So fucking what?" I say. "Who cares about them? I'm in this to either save my own fucking life or kill myself. I just can't decide, I guess."

Jake sighs. "You can't give up, you know," he says. "There's people out there who are having loads of children, because they think that their kids will never have to face the Hunger Games. They're thinking that you're going to eradicate the Hunger Games."

"What if I can't?" I say. "What then? Then I'll kill off all of Panem and everyone is going to hate me like hell."

"Then it'll be your own fault," he says, standing up. "Wait a sec, I think I hear something-"

Sure enough, the door opens, and two Peacekeepers step in. They raise their eyebrows when they see me, looking beaten-down, in Jake's room. I glare at them, my face flushing a little. They're giving me looks like Jake has been fucking me. My hand feels the cut on my forehead. "Reviz, you look beat up," says one of the Peacekeepers, a skinny, pale man. "Paylor likes it rough, huh? Nice cut."

"Shut the fuck up," I mutter. I'd rather rub it in their faces that I've been overdosing, but then I'd get myself into even worse trouble. So I let them laugh, and Jake seems to look grateful about what I've said, even though it implies that he's been fucking me and beating me 'till I bleed.

"Well..." says the second Peacekeeper, a huge, dark-skinned man with a deep voice. "This is your stop, you two. District Eight." He gestures to the window.

I pull aside the shades and peer out at the world rushing past. A sick sensation builds in my stomach. Because this isn't the high-tech terror of the Capitol, or the beautiful seaside of District Four. It's a barren place of smog, broken-down factories, old streets, and hard-packed dirt. Barely any grass. A few withered trees. The sky is cloudy with pollution and the disgusting gray clouds that precede a thunderstorm.

I turn to Jake, but he just shrugs. "Haven't you seen the pictures in our old schoolbooks of the districts?" he says. Yes, I have, but seeing this filth in person, in such stark contrast to District Four, is sickening. I nod. "District Six is worse, you know."

"Fuck District Six," I mutter, kicking the wall hard. "We're here. And this doesn't only sound like it's going to be hell, it looks like hell, too."


	6. As I'm Drowning

**Hey! Thanks to daydreamer626 and cursed to curse (Anarchy Girl, you changed your pen name!) for reviewing! :) They're finally in District Eight! There's going to be some suggested and building romance from here on out. And yes, this is the point where some of you might guess what my huge twist to the story is.**

**Also, I have a new fanfic called Roads To Amity, about a Hunger Games OC from District Six, so check it out! It's kind of like A Deadly Spark. I miss writing about the Games themselves. But don't worry, I'm definitely not stopping on this story. :)**

**And there's some violence towards the end of the chapter. Just thought you should know, if that isn't your thing.**

_**As I'm Drowning**_

Yes. I'm a tribute again. They lead Jake off to the Peacekeeper training center, but they make a stop for me. I immediately dub it the 'Remake Center'. And it's true. This time, they don't just pretty me up for the Capitol. This time, they tell me something that infuriates me. "You're going to have to alter your appearance a little," says a Peacekeeper. "A different natural hair color and eye color."

I nod -what else is there to do?- and choose to have my hair dyed a darker shade of brown, like Jake's, and my eyes turned from blue to dark brown, a little lighter than Jake's. The hair-dying is easy enough -who know that Peacekeepers have an inner prep team?- but they have to put me under and do some kind of Capitol-worthy surgery on my eyes.

When I wake up, I grab a mirror. My eyes throb with pain, but I don't care. I squint at my reflection. Dark brown hair. And I'm transfixed by my dark eyes. I'm a whole different person now. I can barely recognize myself. I think I've really lost myself now. I just lie there for a few hours, and then I'm escorted into into a fancy car to the 'Training Center', as I think of it in my Games mindset.

I stumble out of the car, marveling at the Peacekeeper Training Center. It's a huge building that looks to have a lot of rooms in it, probably where the Peacekeepers-in-training sleep. There's a huge field with a track around it outside. An obstacle course. Targets to shoot those complicated Peacekeeper guns at. My stomach clenches. It's the Training Center. I'm back. Here I am. I'm back in the Capitol, preparing for the arena.

A couple Peacekeepers escort me up to my bedroom. The halls are empty, since it's lunchtime. I feel so uncomfortable, but then one of the Peacekeepers opens the door. The walls are light green, with a large bed and furniture arranged around the room. "Everything you need is provided," he says gruffly. "You'll be sharing this room with Paylor." He hands me a piece of paper. Oh, shit, a schedule. "In an hour, you'll have to go to the field outside. Dress in some of these clothes." He gestures to the closed closet, the other being open. "You'll be issued weapons, of course." As he turns to leave, he adds, "And remember not to get on anyone's bad side."

I always get on someone's bad side, but I don't bother to point that out. I just want to find Jake. Oh, well. I pull off clothes, stripping and throwing them on the floor. I figure that the other clothes will be close to the ones that I just took off. Naked, I open the closet door, pulling out some clothes. But there's a face staring back at me. "Spark?" they say disbelievingly. It's Jake.

My face blushes bright red. I grab a sheet from the bed and wrap it around my body. Shit. It's white, and practically transparent. Oh, well, better than nothing. "Yeah," I say. He steps out of the closet. "They made me change my hair and eyes." I blush even more when I see Jake's eyes on my body. "And... why the fuck are you staring at me naked?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I'm not," he says lightly, looking up at the ceiling. Oh, shit, there's a camera. So they _are_ watching us. He turns his back. I see that he's already wearing different clothes. "Here, you can change. I won't look." I can tell by the way that he turns his head to look at me, though, that he'd rather look than not. My face flushes, and I feel so... ugh. _No falling in love! You've got to be a rebel!_ I remind myself.

But I drop the sheet to the floor, kicking it aside. "I really don't give a fuck if you see me naked, you already have," I say, shrugging. He turns around, his face flushing a little when he looks at me. I grab some clothes, letting my hair down. "There. Feel fucking free to rape me or whatever the fuck you want to do to me," I spit hostilely. Why the fuck am I so defensive and paranoid? Jake shakes his head, but I just pull on the clothes. The same thing I was wearing earlier, only cleaner. Ugh, this is going to make me sweat like hell.

"You know that I wouldn't do that," Jake says. "Well, you've got training in an hour. I've got training in ten minutes." He shrugs. "Guess they didn't want us together too much in public. I've got to leave now." I want to say, _don't go,_ but there's something that keeps my mouth shut. He steps closer to me. I feel like I'm sweating so hard that it could fill the ocean. "May the odds be _ever_ in your favor," he says, quieter. Then he leans forward and kisses me. On the lips. I feel myself shudder, and then I've got my arms wrapped around his body. Kissing him back. Feeling the warmth of his arms around me.

I feel finally sane. I feel sober for once. I feel safe again.

Then he pulls away. I'm so fucking confused, though. What did I just do? Why do I feel so happy that I can almost smile again? What's going on? So I just stand there, petrified, as he leaves. Then I sit down on the bed, my head in my hands. What the fuck... Jake Paylor just kissed me. And I kissed him back. My head starts spinning round and round.

I'm going crazy. That's it. I'm insane. I've finally realized it. I start laughing. No, _really_ laughing. Actually laughing maniacally, but then tears start streaming down my face, and the laughs turn into half-sob, half-laugh. I have no idea of the time that's passing, but all I know is that the sobs die down, and the laughter goes away. Pretty soon, I look at the clock. "Shit!" I hiss, getting to my feet and running out the door, slamming it behind me. I'm late.

After running all the way down to the field, I'm dripping in sweat and panting like a dog. An actual Peacekeeper, not just one in training, scowls at me. "You're late, Reviz," he grunts, marking my name down on a clipboard. I stand there, not saying anything. "Well? You're late." He acts like it's the worst crime that could ever be committed, stepping closer to me and grabbing me by the collar. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

I shrug. They say not to be rebellious, to keep a low profile? Well, fuck that. "I don't give a fuck about being late," I say. I can't stop the grin that comes to my face. I don't care if I look insane. I _am_ insane. I look like a thin scarecrow, made to wear the farmer's old clothes that hang off me like dried, brittle skin on a skeleton. I feel like... I never know anymore, do I?

I feel a slap across my face, and my cheek is stinging. "I'm not going to tolerate your profanity and careless attitude, Reviz," he growls, dragging me out to the track. "Now. Four laps. That's only two miles. _Go." _I just stand there. Two miles? Holy shit, I don't want to run two miles. Back in the days, I probably could, but now, I'm a complete wreck. There's no way I can hold out. "Go!" the Peacekeeper yells, shoving me onto the track and pushing me forward.

So I run. Or, actually, jog. I'm already losing energy around half a mile, and I collapse onto the track. The drugs have taken their toll on my body and transformed me into a ruin. I can't get up, but there's the Peacekeeper, pulling me to my feet and shoving me along, screaming for me to go. I stumble. I trip. I make it one mile. I walk the rest of the way, barely able to move. I'm huffing and puffing. I'm dying. My feet are barely moving.

_Keep going, you stupid little bitch! _I yell at myself. _Keep going!_

I collapse at the very end of the track, not getting off. I roll over, shakily pulling off my jacket, kicking off my boots, peeling off my sweaty socks, rolling up my pants to my knees. Everyone's staring at me, but I just wad up the jacket into a ball and rest my head on it like a pillow. I'm a little shaky, for some reason, and the world's blurry. I can't see straight. I can barely breathe.

The Peacekeeper pulls me to my feet. "You're staying behind for some extra training," he snarls, the muscles in his neck bulging. "Everyone but Reviz, you're dismissed." If I had any energy, I'd raise my arm to give them all the middle finger. But I can't move.

Once they're gone, he shoves me down on a bench. "You little slut," he seethes, his hands grabbing handfuls of my shirt. "Take off your clothes." I just lie there, numb. Am I just being paranoid, or... "Do it!" he commands, and I pull off all my clothes, my hands barely able to throw them aside. I'm trembling, terrified, as he gets out a few lengths of rope, tying my arms, wrists, legs, feet, and torso to the bench. The rope rubs up against my skin painfully. "Now, you're not going to move. You are not going to yell. You are not going to cry. You are going to keep your mouth shut."

I nod, and he gets out a whip. The fancy kind that only Peacekeepers get, to whip poor poachers and thieves in the town square. I start sweating as he raises the whip. "This is what happens to little rebellious bitches like you," he hisses, and the whip comes down on my stomach hard. It's swelling already. And he goes on like this, over and over, all over my body. Then he undoes the bindings -I'm too weak to run, and I'm bleeding everywhere- and flips me over, starting on the other side.

After a while, I'm apparently done. "There," he says. He pulls me clothes on for me. Shit... am I unconscious? I can't tell. I feel semi-conscious. There's blood staining all of my clothes. "Go back up to your room. Get some food if you like. Whatever. Be back tomorrow morning."

"Okay," I say shakily, and then I'm crying. Sobbing. The tears sting the cuts on my face, and I stagger back up to my room, leaving blood splattered on the walls and floor as I go. And I'm at the room, finally, and I open the door. Jake's sitting at the small table, eating. Upon seeing me, he stands up, his face going pale.

"Oh, God, Reviz," he mutters. "What the fuck did they do to you?"

And I don't care how stupid it is, but I fall onto him, his arms holding me up. "I _fucking hate them!_" I yell, sobbing. "I fucking hate them! I'm gonna die!" I end up sprawled on the bed, the cuts from every lash of the whip staining the covers. "Get me some drugs, dammit!" I moan, stumbling into the bathroom. Jake follows me. I strip off, throwing my clothes on the floor.

Jake kneels down and turns on the bath water. "Good thing we've got some fancy Capitol shit that they gave us," he says. "The advantages of being rebels-converted-Peacekeepers." He helps me into the bathtub, and I lay down. The water's turning bright red, and it stings my skin, although it's nice and cool. Jake grabs a towel and wipes the blood from the first cut, quickly applying some kind of cream. He does this over and over, pulling me out of the tub and onto the bathmat. I can actually feel the cuts getting better, sealing up. The Capitol doesn't know how lucky they are to have this stuff.

I think I'm falling asleep. "Jake?" I whisper hoarsely. Wait, why am I calling him by his first name? "Is this gonna scar?"

He shrugs. My vision is blurring even more, and I might be blacking out. Or am I? It's all fuzzy. "You'll have one more way to show that you're a rebel," he says, and then everything gets dark.

**So. Sorry if this was awful, I've got writer's block. Anyone besides cursed to curse have an idea of what my plot twist will be? If you look close enough at this chapter -and maybe read through Mockingjay- you may see it. ;)**


End file.
